Book I of the Covalent Series
Genre: urban fantasy/paranormal romance
Publisher: Fairhill Publishing LLC
Date of Publication: March 20, 2016
Number of pages: 600 in ePub
Word Count: 117,259
Cover Artist: Damonza
In loving him, she overcomes her pain, but to discover his true identity would shred the reality she thought she knew.
He is Barakiel. Warrior. Exile. Hopeless romantic. Barakiel is Covalent, a race of ancient beings who use their great power to keep the elemental forces of Creation and Destruction in Balance. The Covalent Council exiled Barakiel to the Earthly Realm as the price of the treachery of his father, Lucifer, who wages perpetual war against it. Lucifer also relentlessly pursues his son. The Council thinks Lucifer views his son’s power as a threat, but Barakiel knows his father seeks to destroy even the memory of love.
She is Alexandra “Zan” O'Gara. FBI Agent. Army veteran. Recovering drunk. Zan’s troubled past left her with little interest in men, but she had never encountered anyone like the stunning Rainer Barakiel. Zan believes Rainer is a wealthy businessman with expertise in edged weapons who can help her with a case. From the moment she meets him she wants him more than she’s ever wanted anything, but her intense attraction is as frightening as it is thrilling.
This is their love story. As Zan’s deepening feelings for Rainer lead her to confront her emotional damage, he struggles to meet the demands of his home world so he will be free to love her, and to reveal his true nature. Through the gruesome crime that first brought Zan to his door, Barakiel learns that his presence in the Earthly Realm has placed some of its most vulnerable citizens in danger. Compelled to protect them, he undertakes a series of duties he may not survive, even as Zan rescues him from centuries of a deadened heart.
Book Trailer https://youtu.be/HGeVs2XgQjo
The Passion Season©
by Libby Doyle
From the prologue
he humped limestone splintered with each blow of Barakiel’s fist. Cracks raced through the layers until the rock was reduced to rubble. The warrior expelled a ragged scream. It was too easy. He had destroyed the outcropping in less than ten minutes and still his murderous agitation would not leave him. He stared down at the surf that crashed at the base of the cliff.
If I jumped, perhaps I would become as senseless as the rocks that broke my body. The Council should have killed me. It is cruel, to deprive me of purpose. It is dangerous.
Barakiel did not want to leave Hibernia. He had come to love this wild, green place, but he feared for the brothers who had welcomed him. The monks of Corcomroe Abbey led quiet lives in harmony with nature. The warrior had tried to do the same, but he felt Destruction growing within him.
I admired these brothers once. Now I envy them their purpose. Now I dream of wringing their necks.
Even if he cast his body on the rocks below, he would not die, and he refused to die at the hands of a demon. He stared at the storm-laden clouds as a harsh wind drove them south, hiding then revealing the sun.
You will not claim me father. I do not want to hurt anyone. I will meet the Stream.
The Stream was the boundary of the Creative Realm. The Covalent believed this realm was the catalyst of their origin, but they understood little about it beyond a sense of constant motion and furious power. To enter—to meet the Stream—was to be absorbed by its fearsome energy, never to return. Those who did so were usually far older or far weaker than Barakiel, but he knew anyone would think his choice a valid one, given his aimlessness and isolation.
“What in the name of Balance are you doing all the way out here?” Pellus raised his voice to be heard over the wind as he crested the top of the hill. “I was looking all over for you. You were supposed to meet me in our usual spot.”
Barakiel snapped his head to stare at the adept. Pellus stopped a few feet from the warrior, concern etched on his face.
“The agitation. No better?”
“It is worse.”
“I suspected as much. You grow more powerful with each season.”
“Power?” Barakiel laughed bitterly. “More like impotent rage.”“Remember what your mother taught you. Like all warriors, you have a compulsion toward violence, an innate need to take up your sword. And you are a Warrior of the Rising, descended from the first Covalent who were forged
from the Creative and Destructive Forces as they rose and swelled into the Void. The blood of ancient warriors pounds through your veins. Your subconscious is on fire with their memories. You are a born weapon.”
“A useless weapon!” Barakiel shouted, looking about wildly before fixing his burning blue eyes on the sea. “A weapon that will turn upon the innocent. You must take me to the Creative Realm, Pellus. I will meet the Stream.”
“What?” Pellus stepped up to grasp the warrior’s arm. “I will not. I would rather meet the Stream myself than allow a warrior like you to waste himself.” He tugged on Barakiel’s arm. “Look at me! I know you are struggling with your power in a way that I cannot understand, but give me a chance to help you. The Stream is for ancient Covalent who are weary of life. For weak Covalent who are a burden to the citizens. Not for you.”
“I am like him, Pellus.” Horror swept Barakiel’s face. “I am just like my father.”
“You are not.” Pellus strode toward the edge of the cliff. When he turned back his eyes were bright with anger. “You have been deprived of Balance. If you were home, you would wield your sword in service to the Realm. Selflessness, honor and duty would channel your energy.”
The cawing of a distant flock of birds came over the sea, carried by the wind. Barakiel watched them fly. He wished he could lose himself among them.“When I was small my mother taught me about the Guardians,” he said, his eyes never leaving the birds. “The ancient Warriors of the Rising who gave up their lives to
become one with the Covalent Realm. She told me how they used the power of their collective minds to create the Turning, the band of pure energy that surrounds and protects our home. She told me that without the Guardians’ sacrifice, the elemental forces would have crushed us. I know their blood runs in my veins, Pellus. They are the highest of heroes. I feel ashamed when I think of them.”
“Do not feel ashamed. Your exile is not your fault.”
“It makes no difference whose fault it is. How long will it be before I lose control and turn to violence for amusement? I am Lucifer in waiting.”
Pellus stared at Barakiel for a moment, his emotions seemingly shoved back wherever he kept them. “Your father was a great leader before he was consumed by Destruction,” he said. “You could be as well.”
The warrior bent to pick up a piece of shattered limestone, then he flung it out to sea. It traveled so far he could not see where it fell to the water.
“My mother could always make him laugh.” Barakiel smiled sadly. “His laughter would shake the walls of our chambers.”
“We all grieve for Lucifer,” Pellus said in a gentle voice. “He was laid low by his own arrogance and impatience.”
Libby Doyle is an attorney and former journalist who took a walk around the corporate world and didn’t like it. She escapes the mundane world from time to time by writing extravagant yarns, filled with sex and violence. She loves absurd humor, travel, punk rock, and her husband.
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